Seams
by Kang Xiu
Summary: Bush helps Cotard with his poor tailor clothes, which have the base impudence not to fit properly. Slash.


Seams

"All right, Major?" Bush put his head into Cotard's (his!) cabin momentarily, leaning heavily on the doorframe and feeling the wood press into his palms with a touch of disinterest. In truth, he had leaned on the frame too many times to feel any thrill of being part of the ship, touching it, meeting with it. He looked over at Cotard, who was fiddling with the buttons on his wide-sleeved shirt.

"I am not at all, Bush. These clothes are too small."

"Are they? Well, Major, there's not much I can do about it but ask the captain if anything can be done."

"I wish you would," said Cotard, still fiddling with the buttons.

Bush went off, only sighing a little and only now that Cotard couldn't hear him. But, indeed, Horatio was good to be so patient with him so much of the time. One could only be suspicious of French allies; one would look at them sideways and sometimes wonder; one would eye them secretly and theorise; and with a man as bad-tempered and evidently ill-suited as Cotard, one felt little remorse for it (well, one usually did. Bush sometimes didn't). Horatio was good not to show his irritations--for surely he had them as much as Bush.

Besides, the clothes did not look too small for Cotard. They fit well, Bush thought, considering it slowly. He didn't ordinarily look for that sort of thing, but he'd glanced at them because they'd been mentioned, and they looked fine. The man was probably causing trouble just to hold Horatio up.

He knocked at Horatio's door and went in, sighing lightly at Horatio, who was shaking out clothes much the same; an ordinary man's jacket, waistcoat, shirt and trousers. "Horatio, our Major claims his outfit doesn't fit him."

"Tell him," said Horatio, passing a hand over his eyes, "that I don't keep these sort of clothes on my ship as a rule, and he'll have to make do. Unless," he added, as a thought apparently came to him, "they don't fit him to an extremely noticeable degree."

"No, sir, they look quite all right."

"Then tell him, as I said, there's nothing to be done. If he has a knife with him, he can let out some of the seams."

"Very well." Bush cast a regretful look at Horatio, though he wouldn't argue with him this time (he'd argued the last two times, and he meant to once more before Horatio left, and that was all he could try while still being respectful), no matter he thought the mission a bad idea. He ought to be the one going with Horatio. Horatio would know he could trust him and be safe with him--with this Frenchman, one couldn't be certain.

Dutifully, however, he went back to his cabin and found Cotard tucking a pistol into his belt with one hand, and still worrying at the buttons with the other. That habit was beginning to make Bush slightly nervous.

"Major? The Captain says he's got nothing else you can wear, and I'm afraid you'll have to manage as well as you can."

"Ah!"

"But if you've a knife, you're welcome to try letting some of the seams out."

Cotard paused, considering it, and finally pulled a small knife from the pocket of his red jacket, which was lying draped over his hammock. He ran his fingers over the worn, brown jacket that he was wearing, and finally looked up at Bush. After a moment, he said stiffly, "Assist me, s'il vous plait."

"What is it you need, Major?"

"I cannot do this by myself while I am wearing this coat."

"Can't you take it off?" Bush asked as he came into the cabin and began lifting the threads of the first seam over the jacket's sleeve. It did look at bit tight, he noted.

"No," said Cotard gloomily. "It is too small. I cannot get it off."

"All right. The knife, Major. Let me see."

He shifted his arm over Cotard's shoulders and worked the knife beneath the thread, pressing a little clumsily until it snapped, and then pulling the thread out a small length in each stitch, until the whole thing was loosened all the way around and Cotard could sigh and stretch his arm.

"Yes. That is better."

Bush felt, momentarily, deeply insulted that his work was only 'better', particularly 'better' said in that discontent tone of French-accented voice, but only momentarily; he shook his head, muttered 'Very well, then', crossed to Cotard's other side and began again on the second sleeve. He was leaning rather awkwardly against Cotard in order to hold the seam and cut it over Cotard's shoulder, but seeing as that Frenchman was not saying anything about it or moving out of the way, he had no intention of saying anything, either.

"Tell me, Bush," Cotard said suddenly, turning to the side, apparently to make the task of pulling out the thread easier, but in actuality--and to Bush's annoyance--making it much more difficult, "do you understand any French?"

"No," said Bush briefly, finishing the sleeve. "Is that all right, Major?

"It is tight across the back, too."

"I don't know that I can do anything about that. Here, let me see." He moved and stared blankly at Cotard's back, because there didn't seem to be any seams to let out there. --Except on the sides. Those ones on the sides, they could be altered a bit and pulled out; perhaps they would make the coat less tight. It certainly was tight, he realised now. It stretched out across the middle of Cotard's back, below his arms. So, accordingly, he knelt with one hand on the floor, and began cutting and gently pulling the seams along the sides, while Cotard went on,--

"You understand no French at all? I am not asking, you understand, whether you speak it--it is easier to understand it than to speak it. Do you not?"

"No, not a word. Might you move your foot? You're standing on my fingers."

"Oh!" Cotard started and quickly shifted. Bush lifted his hand and flexed the fingers irritably, deciding it was better to use both hands, if only to avoid this. "I, ah, apologise."

"Thank you. Just a moment."

"It is a pity you do not speak it."

"Well, why, Major?"

"It is always good to speak several languages, /Lieutenant/," Cotard answered, with an air of superiority; a very unsatisfactory answer. Bush considered his choices. He might reply; he might ignore the fellow; he might say something in Latin, since he knew his paternoster at any rate. Instead, he chose to continue cutting and pulling on Cotard's other side, muttering something vague about languages being useful, yes. He felt like a common sailor, an utter fool, a first lieutenant playing steward to some Frenchman. This was entirely absurd, and, finished with the back, he rose.

"Well, Major, I trust that suits you."

Cotard looked at him with one eyebrow raised to an impossible height, and said, "/I/ trust, Bush, that the pun was unintentional."

"Entirely, Major."

"Then the wrists are still a little--"

"All right." Bush took Cotard's hand emotionlessly and began picking at the seam and hems at the cuff until they came loose, then took the other hand just as Cotard reached over, caught his fingers deftly, and lifted them up to be kissed; avoiding the knife, Bush had just time to think, in a rather dexterous manner. "Major--!"

"Forgive me. --No, do not forgive me," Cotard declared. It suddenly somehow occurred to Bush that he was rather melodramatic. "I shall not repent at all."

"Very well. Your other cuff is still tight, I take it, Major."

"Oui."

So Bush began the same process over again on the other cuff, thinking unsurely to himself. He was feeling horribly complacent about the whole business. He had just been kissed--his hand, mind, but it was still a kiss--and for some reason, he was going on as though nothing had happened. He was still uselessly pulling threads, despite the fact that he ought to be having /some/ sort of violent reaction... ought he not? Did men generally react with perfect calm to this sort of thing? The trouble was, he honestly didn't mind all that much. To be sure, it was surprising, but, damn it, it was surprising to have a cannon ball blow up the deck before one's feet--it was surprising to hear of peace or French allies. One was often surprised, really, and often in far more unpleasant ways; but he wondered briefly why he should be so confused. He was always quick at making decisions when it came to things that must be done on the ship or in action; and then, of course, he realised that those things he knew about, was trained in, had to understand. This was not the same, and it was stupid to think so. Still, he came back to the same thing--why on earth was he so complacent? Why not disturbed? Why not have protested? --and he had no idea at all.

And it was irritating, almost as much so as trying to get these threads pulled out.

"Bush."

"Yes?"

"I take it you are displeased."

"Er, well, actually--" Bush grimaced, about to continue with the tricky part of this, when Cotard smiled, not widely or smugly or superiorly, but as though he were pleased, and only raised his eyebrows a very little.

"Really? That is very good to hear."

"Is it?" said Bush offhandly, still trying to decided precisely how he should behave. How in hell had this happened?

Cotard lifted one now cut-pulled-and-unthreaded, comfortably-fitted-at-the-wrist hand, and touched Bush's shoulder, and then his cheek. "I 'appen to like your hair very much, Bush." For the first time, Bush truly noticed very distinctly that Cotard left the 'h' off 'happen'. "It is a pity you speak no French."

"Is it really, Major?"

Cotard smirked. "Vraiment, cher coeur, mon ange. C'est presque triste."

"For heaven's sake--"

"Forgive me. I wish to thank you for helping me with my coat."

"Certainly, Major. I did as I ought."

"Ah, but no. You have worked most carefully and in truth I should not have ordered you about, though I do not regret it." Cotard smiled again, and kissed him.

To his complete astonishment, Bush did not pull away. He didn't even protest. Instead, he returned the kiss, if a little unsteadily due to surprise, with one hand braced on the bulkhead behind him. Cotard's hand brushed his hair lightly, and he suppressed a slight shiver because it was unexpected. Why--he started to think again, but stopped thinking about it quickly--and abruptly, there was a knock at the door and it began to open.

So he pulled away, turned away, looked innocently out the little window in the cabin as Cotard made small noises of surprise and displeasure.

Matthews, for his part, tugged his forelock respectfully and said cheerfully, "Begging your pardon, sir, but Captain Hornblower's found another coat for Major Cotard that he expects will fit him better. Looks like he'll need it, too, sir, if you don't mind me saying. Here it is. Also, sir, he'd like to see you for a moment in his cabin."

Bush turned back quickly and stared for the barest moment at Cotard before regaining his composure and saying, "Yes, Matthews. Thank you", and taking the blue coat. Matthews ducked out.

Bush almost laughed. Cotard was no longer wearing the worn brown coat, due to the fact that all the seams, already loosened far more than they ought to be, had come open and unthreaded themselves during the kiss, and the pieces of material had fallen apart. However, Cotard managed to retain his dignity. He took the blue coat from Bush, raised his eyebrows, and said,--

"We shall, I think, continue this discussion later. Your capitaine, he wants you."

"Yes, Major," said Bush, and he straightened his uniform coat and grinned before going out the door.

He still was not sure why he was grinning. Perhaps, though, such things were inexplicable. Perhaps this was because they needed no explanation.


End file.
